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December,
to me is the Spring time
of memories -
December to me
the birds of
memories flying back and forth,
December to me,
a ****-tail of sweet, delicious,
painful memories, emotions.
Recall me those misty
nights,
the whole city,
awashed with frothing milky light
the blue expanse up above
with stars mischievously
glinting with joy and the moon
casting quiet smiles
upon all the
children of God on Earth.
Recall me those days
walking along with him down a
straight tarred road
like a ribbon unrolled.
Both sides lined-up with
flats embellished with
colourful, flashing, scintillating X'mas stars
bunches of balloons, festoons,
chandeliers
X'mas cradles,
twinkling X'mas trees
like stars up in the sky
both he and me
wrapping shawls around
our coats
hand in hand
sharing honeyed memories and dreams
overflowing emotions
like rivers gushing forth
cracking jokes
witty he was
tongue-in-cheek he was
forcing me to
burst out laughing often
but
in the din of hooting
local trains
running to and fro non-stop
along parallel tracks
outside the flat walls
umpteen of the night-walkers,
love-birds like us
the middle-aged couples
the old-age love-birds
though rare just a
trickle
passing to and fro
in the piercing cold
joyous, rejoicing, such
piercing needles of cold
thrusting into our skin
all indelibly imprinted
on the tender walls of
my mind, his mind.
Now
after years since we
got separated
both at far ends of
the world
while the world
awaits excitedly with
unlimited patience
the birth of Infant Jesus
in a cattle shed at Bethlehem
with the angels
flying to earth from
heaven
conveying the message of
the arrival of
Saviour of mankind on earth
to liberate man from sins
to purify his soul and mind
yes visualising me very much
the X'mas carolls
Santa Clause with the
accompaniment of drum-beats
all sweet things
of the past
reach to his mind
reach my mind
memories never fail us.
December to me is
the Spring time of my memories
with him
December to him is
the Spring time of his memories
with me....
jia May 21
why
why do i keep holding on
on something so uncertain
uncertain if you really want me
me who only knows how to hope

why do I like you
you do not even notice
my longing stares and glances
glances that I've hidden so long

why don't you choose me
me who kept on waiting
waiting for something uncertain
uncertain as you are
jia May 21
the things im willing to let go,
just so you can know
my feelings and how I desire
to be with you, I would not tire

I tried so many ways
despite the mights and mays
so that we could look eye to eye
won't you ask me why?

i know you have somebody
I know its her body
I know its not me
and it will never be
grace Apr 12
Every year, in English class, we have a poetry unit.
I rarely pay attention.
I get a low A on every vocab quiz and
I can ******* my way through essays

I like poetry, though. I love it, in fact.
I don’t like analyzing it.

Poetry isn’t made for English class.
It isn’t made for stuffy classrooms in ancient buildings full of kids who would rather be anywhere else.

Poetry is made for reading at three in the morning
When the world is crashing down
When it feels like my insides are my outsides
And nothing will ever be okay
Poetry is there for me then
Poetry is made to hold up the sky
Or at least a blanket fort in my bedroom
Poetry is made for laying me softly down to sleep
And for waking me up to the bright, beautiful daylight
And reminding me that everything will be okay
jia Apr 6
how do i undo
the feelings i have for you
when clearly you got no clue
that these are all true

how do i undo
to cut myself from blue
though this ain't new
i wanna get over you
MICHELANGELO: Modern English Translations

Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) is considered by many experts to be the greatest artist and sculptor of all time. These are modern English translations of his poems and epigrams by Michael R. Burch.



SONNET: RAVISHED
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ravished, by all our eyes find fine and fair,
yet starved for virtues pure hearts might confess,
my soul can find no Jacobean stair
that leads to heaven, save earth's loveliness.
The stars above emit such rapturous light
our longing hearts ascend on beams of Love
and seek, indeed, Love at its utmost height.
But where on earth does Love suffice to move
a gentle heart, or ever leave it wise,
save for beauty itself and the starlight in her eyes?



SONNET: TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO, AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A pena prima.

I had barely seen the beauty of his eyes
Which unto yours were life itself, and light,
When he closed them fast in death's eternal night
To reopen them on God, in Paradise.

In my tardiness, I wept, too late made wise,
Yet the fault not mine: for death's disgusting ploy
Had robbed me of that deep, unfathomable joy
Which in your loving memory never dies.

Therefore, Luigi, since the task is mine
To make our unique friend smile on in stone
Forever, brightening what dark earth would dim,
And because the beloved causes love to shine,

And since the artist cannot work alone,
I must carve you, to tell the world of him!


SONNET: BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Al cor di zolfo.

A heart aflame; alas, the flesh not so;
Bones brittle wood; the soul without a guide
To curb the will’s inferno; the crude pride
Of restless passions’ pulsing surge and flow;
A witless mind that ? halt, lame, weak ? must go
Blind through entrapments scattered far and wide; ...
Why wonder then, when one small spark applied
To such an assemblage renders it aglow?

Add beauteous Art, which, Heaven-Promethean,
Must exceed nature ? so divine a power
Belongs to the one who strives with every nerve.
Created for such Art, from childhood given
As prey for her wild Inferno to devour,
I blame the Mistress I was born to serve.



SONNET XVI: LOVE AND ART
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sì come nella penna.

Just as with pen and ink,
there is a high, a low, and an in-between style;
and, as marble yields its images pure and vile
to excite the fancies artificers might think;
even so, my lord, lodged deep within your heart
are mingled pride and mild humility;
but I draw only what I truly see
when I trust my eyes and otherwise stand apart.

Whoever sows the seeds of tears and sighs
(bright dews that fall from heaven, crystal-clear)
in various pools collects antiquities
and so must reap old griefs through misty eyes;
while the one who dwells on beauty, so painful here,
finds ephemeral hopes and certain miseries.



SONNET XXXI: LOVE'S LORDSHIP, TO TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A che più debb' io.

Why should I confess my desire
with copious tears and windy words of grief,
when a merciless heaven offers no relief
to souls consumed by fire?
Why should my aching heart aspire
to death, when all must die? Beyond belief
would be a death both delectable and brief,
since in my compound woes all joys expire!

Therefore, because I cannot dodge the blow,
I rather seek whoever rules my breast,
to glide between her gladness and my woe.
If only chains and bonds can make me blessed,
no marvel if alone and bare I go
to face the foe: her captive slave oppressed.



Michelangelo Epigram Translations
loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

I saw the angel in the marble and freed him.
I hewed away the coarse walls imprisoning the lovely apparition.
Each stone contains a statue; it is the sculptor’s task to release it.
The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.
Our greatness is only bounded by our horizons.
Be at peace, for God did not create us to abandon us.
God grant that I always desire more than my capabilities.
My soul’s staircase to heaven is earth’s loveliness.
I live and love by God’s peculiar light.
Trifles create perfection, yet perfection is no trifle.
Genius is infinitely patient, and infinitely painstaking.
I have never found salvation in nature; rather I love cities.
He who follows will never surpass.
Beauty is what lies beneath superfluities.
I criticize via creation, not by fault-finding.
If you knew how hard I worked, you wouldn’t call it “genius.”

Keywords/Tags: Michelangelo, Italian sonnet, sonnet, sonnets, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, translation, translations, English, love, affinity and love, love and art, beauty, art, artistic work, light
jia Mar 29
i write too many poems for you
ones i assure you don't know of
and you won't even read it
for the existence is beyond your knowledge

i write too many poems for you
ones i can't even read
it's just so hard to believe
that it's all about the same thing

i write too many poems for you
ones my hands just type without cue
how i mindlessly formulate it
in all honesty, i have no clue

i write too many poems for you
at one point i wish you knew
but I'm contented that you don't
for i know nothing would change

i write too many poems for you
but we're not on the same line
nor on the same stanza
neither in the same poem

i write too many poems for you
but it's time to stop now
it's tiring, don't you think?
to write, without a reader.
K R Surendran Mar 28
His youthful days in the city
have robbed him off the names
of flowers, plants, various
species of birds,
insects and animals
barring a few.
The names of the ones he was familiar
with during his childhood
days and teens
unfortunately are forgotten.
The surging crowds,
the speeding vehicles,
the trains blaring their
horns like tigers roaring and long hours
lost due to journeys
and round the
clock duties in which he immersed himself
to be precise, the mechanical life
spent in the mechanized ambience of
the cosmopolitan city
all took away from
him the  attractive
colours and fragrance of  various flowers,
the serene, calm and beauty of
the sylvan  surroundings
the pure air
the flowing streams which
gurgling  like girls wearing
anklets while walking
the early morning melodious music
of nightingales,
the chirping of birds and the music of crickets
have got lost in hustle and bustle of the
city life.
Now he in his
village sits alone
sadly and with aching heart
those invaluable gems of the days
he lost colouring his
days in the city……..
‘I have to learn from the beginning now,
sadly many invaluable things
have already vanished with the offensive of industrialization………’
-he told himself.
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